


give it oxygen

by annavale23



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, During Canon, Gen, Hurt/Attempted Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Iroh (Avatar) is a Good Uncle, Lu Ten and Ursa appear for a little while, Ozai (Avatar) Being a Terrible Parent, Pre-Canon, Uncle-Nephew Relationship, Zuko is an Awkward Turtleduck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:01:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25918498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annavale23/pseuds/annavale23
Summary: [Uncle’s eyes crinkle at the edges in a kind sort of way, like how the feathers on a turtleduck adjust when they’re a touch too damp. Zuko frowns, and once more Uncle’s looks have confused him. Uncle’s face is softer than Father’s, but the cold edges of Father’s make his thoughts ever-so plain.“Fire needs oxygen, Prince Zuko,” Uncle says softly.]...Or: Zuko, and his relationship with fire, family and expectations.
Relationships: Iroh & Zuko (Avatar), The Gaang & Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 252





	give it oxygen

**Author's Note:**

> So, like many people, I've been caught by the ATLA wave now it's on Netflix. It was my first time watching and wow, I certainly understand the hype behind it now! It's such a good show! 
> 
> Zuko's my favourite character by a mile, and I may be low-key obsessed with writing things about him (and his dynamic with Iroh).
> 
> \--  
> Edit: I'm on tumblr now, as [@drowning-in-cacophony](https://drowning-in-cacophony.tumblr.com/)

* * *

Azula makes her first flame aged two. 

It’s a small little thing, flickering a mellow orange in her tiny palm, the light casting shadows over the lines engraved into her palms, and it makes her eyes sparkle as she shoves it up into their mother’s face. Zuko, aged four and a half, and sitting next to their mother’s hip, grins wide until his face hurts.

“Well done, Zula!” He cheers, and beams as his little sister smiles back. “You made fire!”

“Yes, well done Azula,” their mother adds on, one hand holding Azula close in her lap, and the other petting the top of Zuko’s head. “That’s very good.” 

“Fire,” Azula babbles and waves her hand close to Zuko’s face. “Fire!”

Zuko gives his sister a winning smile and doesn’t notice how his mother’s face slips to something less than pleased.

They tell his father over dinner, an experience that never stops being tense, even when he’s young. When his mother brings him and Azula to eat with Uncle Iroh and Lu Ten, the atmosphere is always different, and he doesn’t have to think about how loud he eats or the proper way to chew, or whether his elbows should or should not be on the table, but Zuko supposes his father just has a different way of being. It’s not wrong, because it’s _Father_. Father is never wrong. 

His father’s eyes, mirrors of his own, flicker like molten lava in the room. Zuko prods at his food, more excited for his sister than hungry. This is a big moment for her after all, even if she’s so young she might not even remember this when she’s bigger. The thought strikes Zuko as an atrocity; he resolves to commit this day perfectly to memory, so he can remind Azula about it so perfectly that it’ll seem like she never forgot. He’s her big brother. This is just what he’s meant to do.

“Is this true, Azula?” He says, addressing the two year old with more seriousness than Zuko thinks is necessary. Azula doesn’t seem to mind. Sat once more in her mother’s lap, she confidently sticks forward one pudgy hand and summons the flame again. Zuko’s eyes widen even as he expects it, because it’s just so impressive. _He_ hasn’t summoned fire yet. He’s not even too sure he knows how, and here is his best baby sister presenting it so strong. Zuko almost gives her a round of applause before he catches sight of that lava bubbling in his father’s eyes. It’s better not to upset his father - because his father is busy and doesn’t need someone like _him_ causing trouble, and Zuko likes making his father happy - but he does give Azula a small encouraging smile. Her flame burns that little bit brighter, and Zuko would like to think it’s because of his smile.

Father examines the orange flickering on Azula’s palm and then gives one of his rare smiles. It’s a sharp sort of thing, all tight lip and harsh edges, and Zuko desperately awaits the day his father gives _him_ it. 

“Well done,” he gives Azula a clipped sort of praise. His eyes slide to Zuko. “Two years old and she’s already making flame. You should be embarrassed, Zuko,” and he sneers Zuko’s name like it’s something rotten, and Zuko barely notices. His shoulders shrink a little. His encouraging smile is gone. Azula plays with the flame on her palm, poking it with her other hand. Across the table, his mother’s eyes try to catch his and fail.

“I’ll do better, Father,” he mumbles and Father sniffs, unimpressed.

Azula’s eyes are like his father’s, he notices. Not in image, but they’ve got the same molten lava, ready to burn. (Ready to destroy).

Azula is able to maintain more than a small pathetic flame, moving into proper katas and the like by the time he manages to summon his own candle-like flame, nearly a year and a half later. 

Her delighted smile is more mocking than his was, he thinks. 

* * *

Zuko just _know_ _s_ he’s going to get in trouble for this. 

It’s not his practise time yet, or it’s not meant to be, but it’s not like his instructors will care. They want him to work harder, because clearly to them he isn’t, otherwise he’d be as good as his sister, and work harder means training _before_ he’s meant to, so it cuts into his other lessons, like his language studies that he’s actually good at. His father sneers a similar observation when they speak, every night at dinner. His mother doesn’t say anything. _Two years younger than you and she’s already mastered more than you should, Zuko. Try harder._

So that’s what he’s doing. Gathering _information_. Because Azula is so much better than him - she’s _exactly_ what his father wants - so watching her should tell him what he’s doing wrong. It counts as training, he reasons to himself, and knows his instructors will not agree. His father might not agree either, but he’s sure this is the right thing to do. He needs to get better with fire, just like his younger sister. He needs to get the smile his father gives his sister. This is the best way to do so. 

He’s not alone, watching Azula. Cousin Lu Ten’s here today, and he was here before Zuko skulked over. Lu Ten hasn’t been around as much as he used to be - soon, Lu Ten won’t be around at all, or at least not for months at a time. He’ll be off to war. Nobly fighting to bring enlightenment to the savages in the Earth Kingdom. Zuko already knows Lu Ten will be amazing at it.

Across the courtyard, Azula lets out a furious kick of fire that arches high into the sky. Scorching bright against a clear blue, and the light lasts a few more seconds on the backs of Zuko’s eyes than in the actual air. The instructor she has nods approvingly. 

“Perfect form, Princess.”

Lu Ten seems to agree. His hands clap, loudly so they echo across the courtyard. Raucous applause and Zuko doesn’t get that sort of praise.

Azula scowls at Lu Ten’s claps. 

“Shut up,” she snaps, hands balling at her sides, and she ignores the horrified gasps of her instructor. “You’re off putting me with that noise.”

Lu Ten, older and probably more experienced to the ways of little girls, only smiles with warmth in return to Azula’s biting, disrespectful words. He’ll be the Crown Prince eventually, and the future Firelord after that. Diplomacy is practically in his blood now.

“I’m sorry, cousin,” Lu Ten says easily. “I wouldn’t want to off put you. I only wanted to cheer you on. Your firebending is very impressive, especially for someone as young as yourself. I’m in awe, really.”

Azula sniffs. To the uninformed eye, it’d look like she doesn’t care one bit at the praise, as she turns back to her instructors to continue the next move. But Zuko’s had practise with his sister, and he knows _most_ of her subtleties by now, from the bad ones to the good ones, and there’s the faintest trace of pink to her still-round cheeks and when she shoots fire out of her palms, there’s a bit more of a flourish there. She likes the praise. 

Zuko glares at his own hands. _In awe,_ and no one’s ever said that about _him_. 

“Prince Zuko!” A shadow falling over him and it’s _his_ instructor. The shadow blocks out the sun; something crawls down Zuko’s spine. “ _This_ is where you ran off to. We have work to do.” There’s the slightest trace to the man’s words, quiet enough that no one but he and Zuko will understand. At his side, Lu Ten smiles good naturedly. 

“Go on, Zuko,” his cousin nudges him. “I’ll come and sit in on your training tomorrow if you want. I’m sure you’ve learnt so much more since last time - it’ll be fun, letting you impress me.” There’s a smile woven onto his cousin’s lips and Zuko does not return it as his instructor hauls him to his feet. A too tight, slightly too hot hand closing ever so briefly around his wrist before Zuko snatches his arm back.

“Let us go, Prince Zuko,” his instructor says, a flash of his eyes, and then his footsteps are stepping away from Azula’s training, and away from the softness that is Zuko’s cousin.

Zuko drags his feet as he follows his instructor, a knot forming quite securely in his stomach. He can still hear Azula’s fire blasts behind him, probably hot enough to scorch another teacher’s eyebrows off. Lu Ten probably wants to clap again. Lu Ten is probably still in awe. 

If Cousin Lu Ten comes to sit in on Zuko’s lesson tomorrow, he’s going to be sorely disappointed. Zuko’s never impressive, not like _Azula_.

* * *

Now he’s, apparently, Crown Prince, there’s so many more _rules_. 

Zuko hates all of them. He hates all the new lessons, the lectures on etiquette and social standing and the comments that he’s already so far behind with cold words until Zuko sort of wants to cry, because it’s not _his_ fault he wasn’t born knowing he’d be Crown Prince. He hates that it means disappointing Father even more, because now it’s more than a son, it’s about the fate of the _family_. Like Father says, he can not have an heir so slow and stupid as Zuko is. He has to be better, brighter, faster. 

The new instructors his father has got him are unforgiving. Father steps in on his firebending practise to help, and Zuko only ends up disappointing him more. Father’s fire is always so powerful, so hot and scorching. Zuko’s is pathetic in comparison, and _this_ also makes him want to cry. It’s times like this that he’d run to Mother, before. 

But Mother isn’t here anymore, and he’s not allowed to talk or think about her anymore. Like the way that no one points out that Zuko wasn’t meant to be Crown Prince, Mother is ignored, like she never existed in the first place, and the only one time he mentions her to Azula, he gets to know his father’s disappointment again. Azula’s a tattletale, and she always was, but now she doesn’t even _hesitate._ All her consequences have been taken away, and now Zuko’s got a thousand more consequences to things he just can’t _learn_.

(Father sneers sometimes that it’s a shame failure isn’t something a Crown Prince needs to master, because at least then he’d be good at _something_ ).

He’s hiding in the shadow of Mother’s favourite tree when Uncle Iroh stumbles upon him. 

Wandering the gardens with his hands clasped in front of him, and the man physically stumbles over Zuko. He’s looking up, at the grounds, at the sky, and not down in the shadow of the tree where Zuko’s curled himself up, back pressed firm to the bark and arms wrapped tight over his stomach, a whole retinue of words bombarding around his head. _Failure. Disappointment. Unworthy_.

Uncle’s foot collides with Zuko’s leg and Zuko lets out a startled yelp, flinching out of the way, pulling his limbs closer, closer. Uncle’s breath hitches before kind eyes are looking down all surprised – then, a soft look, with a faint curve of lips, breaks out over his Uncle’s face.

“Prince Zuko!” He exclaims and Zuko pulls back, flat against the tree, and _princes should be polite and respectful_ so he forces his limbs loose and makes to stand.

“Uncle, I-”

“No need to get up, Zuko,” Uncle says, gesturing his hands downwards so Zuko tentatively lowers himself back down. “I did not see you there, hiding in the shadows.”

“I’m not-” _hiding,_ his face screwing up indignantly.

“It is not a bad thing, to relax down on the floor,” Uncle assures. The words of protest find themselves sticking in Zuko’s throat. “In fact – if you are not busy, do you think I might join you? I’m always looking for a time to sit.”

 _Lazy fool,_ Father’s voice murmurs in the back of his head, slick and low. _No wonder his son-_

Zuko clears his throat, drags a hand over one cheek. He’s not been- been _crying_ , he’s just- making _sure._ “Of course, Uncle,” he says, because politeness, diplomacy, they’re part of these new rules, and Mother was so much _better-_

“Lovely,” Uncle says, and Zuko inches over slowly and slightly as Uncle gets settled on the floor. He wants to sit close to Uncle – close enough to hear the man’s breathing, to bump shoulders, but no. He sits with space between them, his back straight even as he bends his legs close to his chest, because only fools get close with people, that’s what Father says. It’s weak, and Zuko’s really, really trying not to be weak. Not to disappoint _again._

Uncle glances at him and tries a smile. He looks too big on the floor, Zuko thinks, too awkward and his robes hardly allow for this sort of stuff. They’ll get dirty from the courtyard. Zuko’s will too, and that’ll be another thing to fail at. He gathers his hands into his crowded lap, where Uncle can’t see, and his fingers grip into each other tight, for control, because this is awkward and Zuko doesn’t think he quite remembers how to talk to Uncle, not since- And anyway, what is he meant to say? Make conversation? About what? (The fact he’s a failure?)

Uncle chooses in the end. One more look with eyes Zuko can’t read, and he says: “Is there a reason you have chosen to relax today, Zuko?”

He thinks he prefers it when Uncle calls him just _Zuko._ He’s hardly worth the title of _prince_ anyway.

“I-” One word, and it’s stuck in his throat. _I’m a-_ the thoughts and words back and he stares down at his gripping hands, his useless hands that can’t do _anything_ right, and he can’t do anything right in anything, and he’s just one massive alone failure because Azula’s not the same anymore, Father’s always disappointed in him, Mother is _gone_ and-

Uncle waits, not filling the silence with his own words and why couldn’t he just fill the silence with his own words, because the longer he looks the more Zuko feels like his stomach is going to explode and the longer he feels like this the worse he’ll get. It goes on, and his hands grip tighter, and tighter and Uncle’s look is troubled, burning on the edges of Zuko’s vision.

“Zuko,” Uncle begins, quietly. “Is there something bothering you?”

“No-”

Uncle gives him a look. A pointed one, even if the edges are sanded down round compared to Father’s, and Zuko’s still compelled to tell the truth. People shouldn’t _lie,_ not to their superiors, and Father and Uncle are both superior (but Azula always lies, and never cares about to who).

“Well…” he starts, slowly, reluctantly, and Uncle waits, patiently, his eyes hovering on Zuko until he fidgets under the pressure, and then Uncle glances away, calmly and casually, until Zuko’s words flow out. And flow they do, because Zuko can’t keep them in, not with the patience, with this being the first time anyone’s _asked_ him that since Mother _left._

“I can’t bend fire good,” Zuko sniffs, and his eyes burn along with his cheeks. He shouldn’t- he’s not meant to admit things like this, to admit his _weaknesses_ , and oh Father’s going to be so _mad-_

“Prince Zuko,” Uncle’s tone is… concerned? The man’s shifting, leaning over to gently take Zuko’s hands to hold them. Carefully, so Zuko looks up at him all apprehensive, his hands limp even if Uncle’s fingers curl around his. “From what I hear, you’re doing very well.”

 _Who’s telling you that,_ Zuko bites back. It’s a lie, those words of Uncle’s. He’s _not_ doing well at all. Even a _blind_ person could see that. He’s just a stupid failure.

“Not well enough,” Zuko argues. “Azula’s so much _better.”_ He scowls. He’s sure Father’s thought it a million times, because Father’s _said_ it a lot too. Azula would make a much better heir than _him._

Uncle gives him a long look. Zuko stares back, eyes squinting as if that’ll help him see the hidden messages there. It’s easier to read Father’s expressions than Uncle’s.

“Would you let an old man give you a few tips, Prince Zuko?” Uncle asks. Zuko’s eyes go wide. 

“You’d help me?” He gapes, unable to control his expression. Oh, Father would be mad if he could see the openness of his face, but in this moment he can’t bring himself to remember. All he can think is his firebending being _good_ , and how that’ll make Father give him at least the _nod,_ that single jerk of approval.

“Of course I will, Prince Zuko,” Uncle says with one of his smiles. It’s a little tight, but then Zuko supposes he can attribute that to the general... _ness_ that Uncle’s been since returning home. The difference that makes Father sneer behind Uncle’s back ( _the foolish bastard, giving up our greatest siege because of something as pathetic as_ grief).

“Do you have a spare moment now?” Uncle asks, and it is only his years of consequence that make Zuko actually _think_ before enthusiastically nodding. It’s his break before more rules to study, more customs to learn, more sneers from his instructors who never think he’s doing well enough, and spending it learning with _Uncle_ is the best way to spend it. Especially when Uncle smiles, soft and tight, and stands up to offer a hand down to Zuko to help him off the floor. Smiling down at him, the sun behind his head.

Uncle takes Zuko to his personal quarters, where they won’t be disturbed, and Zuko’s silently grateful for that. This isn’t- it’s not against any _rules_. He’s sure, because he’s learnt those sort of rules by now, but still. The thought of being out in the _open_ , where anyone could see, and it has his skin crawling. The private safety of Uncle’s quarters is a balm in comparison.

(That’s not even to say of what _Father_ might think of this).

Zuko settles himself into a crossed legged position, unable to sit completely still. He’s too excited, worked up, and it’s thrumming through his every vein. Uncle laughs very lightly, and it’s one of the first times Zuko’s heard him laugh since. Since.

“What does fire need, Prince Zuko?” Uncle begins the lesson with, his hands carefully folded in his lap. Just like Zuko’s, so at least he’s getting the first thing right. Now he just has to learn well, without failing, so Uncle might teach him again.

Zuko frowns, his brows furrowing. He thinks of what his instructors say, what Father says.

“Fire needs… power.” Zuko chews on the inside of his mouth. “Father says that only weak people struggle with bending.”

Uncle’s eyes crinkle at the edges in a kind sort of way, like how the feathers on a turtleduck adjust when they’re a touch too damp. Zuko frowns, and once more Uncle’s looks have confused him. Uncle’s face is softer than Father’s, but the cold edges of Father’s make his thoughts ever-so plain.

“Fire needs _oxygen_ , Prince Zuko,” Uncle says softly. “That is what feeds it, lets it get high and strong. That is why we firebenders must practise our breathing, for without proper breathing, our flames…?” He’s raising a brow, indicating that Zuko should complete his sentence. Zuko fiddles with the edge of his shirt, anxiety knotted under his ribs even if he knows the answer. 

“They die?” He says, a guessing edge to his voice despite his certainty in such an _easy_ answer. There’s a crease between his uncle’s eyebrows. Small, and it disappears quickly, and it’s too late anyway because Zuko still sees it. He’s a disappointment even in the easy stuff. 

“Yes, Prince Zuko, they die.” When Uncle continues, there’s no trace of that crease. It exists in Zuko’s memory regardless. 

“That is why firebenders meditate. It helps with breathing, which in turn feeds their flame.”

“My, um, my intructors tell me that.” Zuko chews, again, on the inside of his cheek. “It’s just- they don’t-” _they expect me to get it and apparently I can’t even_ breathe _right and how am I meant to lead one day if I can’t even breathe?_

Uncle’s eyes crinkle again. This time in humour, Zuko thinks. He tenses regardless (he doesn’t tense, not with anyone, his shoulders are just tight, he’s not _scared_ of anything), and Uncle smiles at him.

“Most children, Prince Zuko, are quite impatient to get to the true bending,” Uncle says. “Perhaps you just need a breathing guide. Come, try with me.”

Uncle presses a hand against his stomach and urges Zuko to copy with a raise of his brow – Zuko’s already doing it though. He’s learnt to be fast with his instructors, no matter who they are. His hand nestles uncomfortably at his stomach, and his eyes, quiet and slight, glance at Uncle in question. _What next?_

“Breathe with me, Prince Zuko.”

He listens to Uncle’s breaths; copies them as well as he can, maintaining the depth and length better the longer he does, and Uncle’s pleased expression never wavers, so at least at this Zuko’s doing it _right_. It’s a nice- _great_ feeling. At the end of the session, when Zuko knows his instructors will be looking for him soon, he’s disappointed to leave, but Uncle gives him a massive smile and a kind pat on his shoulder.

“You did very well, Zuko,” he says, and Zuko can’t help but beam in return.

He joins Uncle for meditation whenever he can, whenever the servants don’t jostle him somewhere else instead, or whenever his father doesn’t loom close with hissed words and new expectations for his training. It’s not as often as he’d like, mediating with Uncle, but enough lessons about _calmness_ and _control_ and _feeding the flames_ get into his thick head regardless.

And he’d never say this out loud, but he much prefers his meditation with Uncle to his actual training with Father. But of course, never admitted out loud. That would be _bad._

* * *

Fire needs oxygen, and there’s none left in his veins. 

He’s screamed it all out by now, but Father’s always been so much better at breathing than he has. Fire need oxygen, but there’s none left in this rust bucket tin can death trap of a boat, and it’s going to be his coffin, and he’s going to drown in the water all alone without fire and never without _burning_. 

(he’s always burning now, a candle with no end in sight, burning burning burning, and he can still smell burning flesh, too strong catching in the back of his throat and he can still feel the hand, clutched into his skin, the fire too bright, too hot, too _much_ , and _please, Father, please, don’t, I’m your loyal son-)_

* * *

A small candle like flame, and Azula made one without a struggle at two, and he was _late_ at six and now, now he can’t even do _that_ anymore, he’s completely utterly _broken_ , because if at two Azula could hold a small flame then at thirteen he should definitely not react how he _has,_ and his ears are burning and he hates that because it means his cheeks will start burning too and that just makes his face look splotchy and red (red _der_ , because over half of it is-)

“Prince Zuko,” Uncle says and Zuko scowls down at the floor. He doesn’t look up, not into those eyes, eyes that will just be disappointed in him because Zuko’s just a disappointment, and he can’t, he _won’t_ see that look in _Uncle’s_ eyes. “Prince Zuko, it is perfectly normal for you to be-”

Zuko stops listening. He’s _this_ close to clutching his hands over his ears, to block it all out, the slight sigh in Uncle’s voice, the expected sound because of course, _of course_ , Uncle’s seeing what Father always has, that Zuko can’t learn and now he’s just _worthless-_

“Prince Zuko,” Uncle’s voice, distant and he wonders, wonders if Uncle’s ever had problems bending. If Uncle’s ever been like _him_ but- no. no, because Uncle’s not weak, not like he is. Uncle is weak in Father’s eyes but impossibly strong in Zuko’s, he’s always been so strong even after Lu Ten, even now, stuck in this _hell_ with such a ungrateful disappointment who couldn’t even _help_ the 41st, so no, no Uncle’s never been like him, so Uncle can’t _understand_ what it’s like, being the screw up, not like _this._

Uncle’s grabbing at his hands, a sudden swift movement to cut through Zuko’s inattention, and Zuko fails to pull back in time. He stares, too wide-eyed, back at Uncle, his brain taking too long to remember this is just what Uncle _does_. Back in their old meditation sessions, and whenever Uncle wants him to really, _really_ listen. So he shouldn’t be surprised by it or _alarmed_ either. He’s not, not really, just- taken aback. Not alarmed, because that’d mean something bad. (Being _alarmed_ is for weak kids, anyway).

“Prince Zuko,” Uncle says calmly, his eyes soft as they meet Zuko’s. “It is perfectly normal for you to have some trouble with the flame.”

Zuko’s face screws up, and even if he lets no words out, they’re too clear on his face. Uncle’s frowning, and then his face is clearing, his true expression hiding behind manufactured clouds.

“Remember, fire needs oxygen, Zuko,” Uncle says, and if Zuko’s shoulders drop ever so slightly at the sound of just his name, no _prince_ , he won’t force himself to figure out if it’s in relief or horror. “Come. Practise your breathing with me and you’ll be able to keep your fire going, no problem!” Uncle’s face breaks into a smile that Zuko does not believe (but he wants to, so, so very much).

“Fine,” Zuko says curtly. “I’ll _practise my breathing_. But this better work.”

“That’s the spirit, Zuko,” Uncle smiles again, and he never comments on Zuko’s horrible words or horrible tones, he just takes them and continues on like they’re normal, and Father would call Uncle stupid for it and Zuko thinks Uncle would call it kindness, and he- he doesn’t know if it’s just pity or-

“Now, inhale with me, Zuko.” Uncle’s lesson is starting. Zuko’s confused thoughts are once more shoved to the dark depths of his mind, pinned under the weight of wanting, no _needing_ , to do better.

It takes more lessons than he’s happy with (and his rage and irritation is obvious to anyone, because he growls and yells and punches the floor he and Uncle practise on but he never storms off even if he’d want to and he never hits any _person_ either, even if the force of his words make his crew hate him even more than they already _do_ ).

It takes more lessons, but eventually, Zuko can hold his small candle flame in his palm again. It stands steady, no flickering, no hesitation, no _flinching_ , and it is small and warm instead of hot, but it is _there_ and the feeling he gets exploding in his chest is almost as great as the first time he did this, when he was a small kid desperate to catch up with Azula.

And if when his Uncle pats his shoulder and then tries to turn it into a hug in celebration, if Zuko actually _lets_ his uncle wrap his arms around him and if he actually sinks into the hug for a second, well… no one needs to know.

* * *

“Aren’t you going _mad_ from it?” Zuko hisses to Uncle one evening, as Uncle once more prepares tea. You’d think, working in a second-rate tea shop all day would make the man want to rest from tea making in the evening. Instead, there is more, always more, more brews, more tea making, more cups he drinks even when he doesn’t feel like it because he can’t disappoint Uncle.

“Mad from what, Zuko?” Uncle says, soft on his name and that’s one thing to be glad for. That Uncle leaves _Lee_ at the door so Zuko can be _Zuko_ at home, so at least the pretending hasn’t gone so far that the lines are completely blurred. His name is the last thing Zuko _has_ ; he doesn’t know if he’d cope without that too.

“Without-” he looks around on habit, and there’s no one here in their small apartment but them. The curtains are drawn shut. The walls, rice paper thin, but if he whispers no one will hear. Still, he leans in further than is strictly necessary, the steam from the kettle heating the edge of his jaw. _“Bending.”_

Uncle shoos Zuko back, out of the way of the kettle. “I’m about to pour,” the man chides and Zuko breathes out too heavily. _Agni,_ the man’s frustrating. He’s adapted to this all, so much better than Zuko because everyone’s better at things than him, even just _hiding_.

(Azula always used to win their games of hide-and-seek _and_ hide-and-explode. He started failing at hiding early).

“Uncle.” Zuko huffs another breath. Uncle looks at him, one twitching eyebrow, and starts the pour.

“Are _you,_ Zuko?” He asks in his calm measured voice that tells Zuko absolutely _nothing,_ and why does Uncle always have to dart around these fucking things instead of just _saying_ what he feels?

“I asked _you.”_ Zuko reminds. Uncle moves to pouring out the second cup. This tea set is more than a little below them. One plain colour – no pattern, nothing fancy – and the material is rough in places, like it’s not been polished correctly. There are minute cracks along the top of the cups. When Zuko had pointed them out, Uncle has only brightened. _Cracks make character, Zuko_ , and a lingering look Zuko hadn’t bothered to interpret.

“I believe it will be more beneficial for you to answer first,” Uncle says, all calm and perfect and infuriating, and Zuko’s hand curls almost too tight around the cup Uncle presses into his palm. The liquid is hot, pushing against the cup’s sides, and maybe it’d feel uncomfortable to anyone else. But this is the closest to heat he gets now, living in hiding and working in hiding and just _hiding._ He glares into the steaming liquid, too light to reflect his face, and Uncle sips at his own cup.

“Of course I am,” Zuko gives in eventually, his words tight and clipped. “I’m _normal_. It’s not- not right to keep away from bending like this.”

Because there’s nowhere to practise here, not in this small flammable apartment, and the Dai Li who Zuko almost collided with after peeking his _head_ out of his _window_ , and they use spark rocks on their fire and not bending and it’d be beneath them anyway, because bending is for combat and noble purposes but it’d be _something,_ something to feel the light inside of him connect to intentions, to blast and to _work._

Uncle sips at his tea. _Of course._

“Nephew, do you remember why we are here?”

Zuko scowls. “I do. We’re-” dirt on his tongue, a hated word, disgusting for _him_ -

“Refugees,” Uncle says the word much nicer than Zuko would have. “ _Earth Kingdom_ refugees. We are safe here in Ba Sing Se, and that unfortunately comes with sacrifices.”

“I _know,_ but-”

“We are not losing touch with our flames. We meditate. Every day, and that is enough.”

“I know-”

“Then you know there is no need to worry,” Uncle interrupts and Zuko’s inner flame flickers high, scorching, licking the edges of his insides. “Our bending will be fine. You will not go mad.”

Zuko fumes. Silently. If they were on his ship, or any other fucking place, he’d-

Light everything up, pour flames from his fists until his vision goes orange and the heat burns his cheeks, but-

He _can’t,_ because he’s a failure, because if he’d been better, all those years before, if he’d never disappointed, then- then he’d be-

“Drink your tea, nephew,” Uncle says, a mild bucket of cool water. Zuko does not stop scowling, and the heated irritation in his stomach does not stop burning.

He does drink the tea though. To do otherwise would upset his uncle.

(and he _can’t-)_

* * *

He can’t bend.

He can’t bend, and it’s like all of Father’s words are crashing down on him, and this is worse than before, when he couldn’t bend because of the heat fire warmth, because he’s not _scared_ this time and he’s older too, and he’s got a _job_ to do, so he can’t be a failure here too. His only reason, only point of being allowed to stay here is so he can teach the Avatar – _Aang –_ firebending, and if he can’t, then- if he can’t, this is all going to look like some sort of ploy. Some sort of _lie-_

(Azula always lies, but he doesn’t, he _can’t_ , because she’s better at him at _everything)._

_Breathe, Zuko_ , Uncle’s calm voice in the back of his head, and even if the man’s not here ( _because I betrayed him, and of course he’d get himself out, of course he’d not assume I’d come for him, why would he)_ the words work. He presses a hand to his stomach, closes his eyes and concentrates. In and out, over and over as the sun burns his eyelids, in and out until the panic has dissipated. The Avatar and his friends aren’t- aren’t like him. They’re patient, aren’t they? They’ll- they’ll understand.

They’re _kind_ , or at least most of them are.

They’ll understand.

(And that’s so much more than Father ever did).

* * *

“Fire needs oxygen,” he tells Aang, trying and failing to mimic Uncle’s old tone. “That’s why you’ve got to make sure you can breathe. Panic, the apprehension you feel around fire, that’s only going to smother anything you can make, and that won’t help you at all. You’ve got to think about giving the flame energy, breath, and then you’ll know you can control it. It can only grow on what _you_ give it.” His words feel too awkward, too clumsy in his mouth but he’s not got time to dwell on how he sounds. The days are ticking down - if he thinks for too long, he can still taste the atmosphere inside that war room, the glee of too many generals at the thought of _burning_. Aang never complains about how awkward Zuko sounds though, so at least there’s that.

“You’re a great teacher, Sifu Hotman,” Aang beams at him and Zuko swallows the too-familiar wave of irritation that crests high in his chest. He wants to snap, or punch something, and does nothing. It’s a stupid irritation, really, over a _nickname._ Stupid to even think about getting angry over something so small. Especially since he’s sure a nickname means he’s at least _tolerated._

“Uncle would be better,” he mutters as he takes a small sip of water. He’s tentative around drinking when he doesn’t know where that Water Tribe girl Katara is, in case she decides to mess with it as he drinks. It’s something Azula would do; it’s the least he deserves, for what the Fire Nation’s done all these years. He wonders, distantly as he’s found himself doing since his first night here, if waterbending means _all_ liquids, even those inside the body, and isn’t that a troubling terrifying thought.

Aang doesn’t seem to hear him. “You’re very reassuring! I feel less like the fire’s going to backfire under your tutelage.” Aang nudges him. “You must have been an excellent student yourself.”

The words grate, even if they’re not meant to. Aang doesn’t _know_. Zuko turns, casting his face partially in shadow, purging his inadequacy before he looks back at the kid. 

“Yeah, well, you’re a good student too,” he says, trying for a compliment. The words feel _more_ awkward in his mouth than his instructions. Aang still beams.

“You’re much nicer than Toph is,” Aang informs him. “When she first began teaching me, she was all like _be the rock! Help Sokka on your own! Buck up, Twinkletoes!_ ”

“Oh?” What is Zuko meant to say in response to that? _It looks like it works,_ and that wouldn’t be appropriate. But neither would commiserating either, because Zuko’s not in that place to do that, to rag on one of Aang’s friends even good naturedly, and he wouldn’t want to upset _Toph_ , not when she seems to tolerate him the most around here. But silence doesn’t work either, because that makes everything awkward and makes his inability to carry a conversation painfully obvious, so instead he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and says, “Right. Break’s over now.”

Aang pouts. His complaining is good-natured though, and he slips back into the appropriate forms without much resistance. He _is_ a good student.

Dinner, and Aang’s bragging.

It’s a good thing, Zuko thinks, that Aang’s _bragging._ Bragging means he’s proud, and being proud means he can’t be as frightened as he was ( _last time I burnt Katara,_ and silently, never said and thought regardless _and now I’m learning firebending from someone with a burn scar on his face)._ The rest of the group respond well enough to it – Sokka smiles encouragingly, Katara whispers _I knew you’d get it_ with a secret smile Zuko shouldn’t have seen, and even Toph’s begrudging in her admiration. Dinner is made over a fire Zuko could have made quicker than them, even without using bending because of all those days in Ba Sing Se have made him adept with spark rocks, or at least better than _they_ seem to be but no one likes him close to the fire anyway, so he’d suggested Aang light it, to show off his skills, and it had serves as a start to this whole bragging conversation.

“How old were you when you first bent, Zuko?” Sokka asks, seemingly out of nowhere, but it’s more likely that Zuko’s just zoned out for a moment and missed a sentence or so that led here. The line in Katara’s shoulders says enough about how she must feel about the conversation’s turn, but all her lips do is press tight together with no protests slipping forth. Zuko breathes in, carefully and considerately, because flame responds to his breath, and Katara is near the flame and none of them would ever trust him again if he loses control. 

“I don’t know. Six or something?” Zuko shrugs with a tightness locked over his chest. “It was late anyway.” He doesn’t want to tell them this. His failure, but he’s not really got the right to keep secrets from them.

“My friend Kuzon used to say that five to seven was the normal time to find your fire,” Aang pipes up, drawing his eyes away from staring at Katara. “Six doesn’t sound late.”

 _It is_ , Zuko wants to say. _Six is pathetic. Everyone else found their fire so much earlier._

He doesn’t, because they’ll think he’s trying to play a pity card, or they’ll tell him to stop being so dramatic. Especially Katara, and he doesn’t need to give her any more oxygen to _her_ flames.

“Azula made her first flame when she was two,” he says instead, distantly. A preserved memory lodged between the broken flaps of his childhood. He’d told her about it as promised every month until she turned five. It was about that point that she decided she didn’t care about what he had to say. 

Sokka makes some sort of sound in his throat. 

“Of course Crazy Blue Fire’s some sort of prodigy. She is, right?” The last half is aimed at Zuko, who nods. 

“Blue fire’s hard to master as well,” he adds on, and maybe he shouldn’t from the look Katara’s giving him. But Sokka looks vaguely interested and so does Aang, even if Toph looks like she’s not listening, and Zuko’s not used to _interested._ So he grabs onto it with both hands, ignoring Katara’s look, because he’s trying to be useful, trying to prove himself still and he’s not going to stop. “My- the old Firelords. Sozin and Azulon,” _they know their names, idiot,_ “they, um, couldn’t do it. And neither can my- the current Firelord.” He’s so awkward ( _pathetic,_ his sister’s voice murmurs in the back of his head).

“What made her so good then?” Sokka wonders out loud. Aang taps a finger to his lips, as if wondering too.

“She’s the Fire Lord’s daughter,” Katara speaks up, her tone carrying traces of spite (and that’s fine, she more than deserves this right, she _does)._ “It’s probably all that evil in her. Powers her up.”

“Azula was born at a prominent time for Fire benders. A strong time. The sun was, was very _there_ ,” Zuko offers up, and by the look Katara gives him, maybe he should have kept his mouth shut.

“Oh yeah? What about you then?” She challenges. Her lips form an ugly line. “Let me guess. Were you some magical baby too?”

“I was born nearer to midnight than sunrise,” Zuko shrugs, carefully controlled, just like his words. Detached perfectly and made mild just as perfect, emotion stripped back, no way for Katara to prise them apart and find some way to accuse him of invoking a _poor me_ card. Nearer to midnight, and far from Agni’s rays and shaped for death, and all it would do is ruin his chances here. Katara’s eyes flicker and she turns back to the fire, her snide comment falling flat. The rest of the group move on; he’s no longer interesting enough.

But that’s fine. He’s here. He’s teaching the Avatar. He was born nearer to midnight than sunrise, but he’s teaching the Avatar everything he’s ever been taught, and the Avatar is going to use it save the world.

* * *

Fire needs oxygen, and his father has done his best to suck it out of every room, every place, the whole world and Zuko’s veins too, until everyone would scream and beg for his mercy. Fire needs oxygen to create, and now (no matter how hard he begs), no matter how hard Father breathes in, his flames will never ignite.

Father can’t bend, not even in the slightest, and he’s never trained with swords and without heat, without fire, he’s useless, pathetic, all the things he used to call Zuko. It’s pitiful, really. Sad. How Father tries to snarl as he’s carefully pulled away to a prison cell that Toph then proceeds to metalbend permanently shut. ( _Just while we’re figuring things out, Sparky,_ she says with a glint to her eyes that means Zuko will _have_ to remind her, because otherwise she might conveniently _forget,_ and it’s a little violent but it still makes his heart warm in the right way, that she feels that strongly _for him_ ).

Uncle is _proud_ of him.

(And this, this he realises, is what he should have wanted for all those years instead of his father’s nod of approval, this warm _smile_ and the hug that goes with it, careful of the new burn scar exploding over his chest).

And when Katara tells the story of the Agni Kai against Azula – Zuko would try, but he’s terrible at storytelling, and it seems to be something both the Water Tribe siblings excel at, and honestly he might be too exhausted to do anything _but_ listen – Uncle leans over and squeezes his hand.

“Your bending sounds like it was spectacular, Zuko,” Uncle murmurs, soft so only Zuko might hear as Katara moves on to explaining how she came up with the idea to defeat Azula.

Zuko smiles in return. “Thank you, Uncle.”

* * *


End file.
